The Case of the Ghost Army
by WhatASlyDog
Summary: The Cybermen are managing to breach the void again, this time stronger and smarter than before. In order to stop them, the Doctor will need the help of Sherlock, Watson and the Avengers.


The Case of the Ghost Army

Of all of the cases I have ever had the pleasure of investigating with Sherlock Holmes, there has never been one as strange nor as urgent as the one I will recount here. Certainly much of this story has been covered through various newspapers and television stations. No doubt some of the facts of the case may be known to you. However, I have long been of the opinion that seeing all of the data in one place is infinitely more helpful and in this case, it will make for a much better narrative than BBC or any other new channel can offer.

In all of my time with Sherlock, I have only ever seen him consult for assistance on a case twice. Once in case, I have yet to document concerning the crown prince of Bulgaria, for which I am bound not to discuss in great detail and once in the case of the army of ghosts in 2007. On that particular occasion, Sherlock consulted not with his brother, as he had before, but with an old friend of his known only by the moniker "the Doctor". I admit that what Sherlock told me of his friend seemed so outlandish that I was sure he was going mad. The stories of a nine hundred year old alien that travelled through time and space in a great, blue box seemed as though they would be abhorrent to his cold, analytical mind and marked such a departure in his character I wondered for a few moments whether it was not my hearing that had been impaired, rather than his mind, for the former seemed the more likely scenario.

In order to tell this story properly, I must begin approximately two months before my friend decided to consult the doctor, when the ghosts first began appearing in London. There had been whispers of this sort of thing; sightings in East Asia, a few shaky videos posted on the Internet but until then nothing to attract Sherlock's attention. Two months ago, the ghosts started appearing here. It was everyday, the same time, ghosts would float through the streets. People said that they were our loved ones coming back to be with us. I believed it myself. The way they moved, smelled, felt was filled with old remembrances. Even now I find it hard to believe that it was not my father that visited me everyday for those two months, that it was not Corporal White, smelling like gunpowder and the sand of Afghanistan drifting through 221B in the dead of night, with whom I laughed and shared memories of the war. They would only stay for a few minutes at first, there would be sightings every few days. But the more we believed in them, the more we depended on them, the more they appeared. I should interject at this point that Sherlock was always skeptical of the ghosts. If there is ever a reasonable explanation for the unreasonable, Sherlock Holmes will root it out, and he did his best to do so here. But some cases are beyond the realms of such a rational man and Holmes was quite defeated in his endeavors. And so Sherlock sent a single text with a single word halfway across the universe.

A few minutes later there was a curt knock on the door. Sherlock paused in his rendition of the Chaconne to look out of the window onto the steps of 221B. As I moved to stand up, Sherlock spoke.

"Leave it."

"I swear, Sherlock, you must have eyes in the back of your head."

The detective smirked and returned to his armchair, just in time for a man in a pinstripe suit and Converse sneakers to burst into the room followed by an extremely harried looking Mrs. Hudson and a mildly confused looking young woman.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock! I tried to stop him but he just ran right past me going on and on about official business."

"I'm here," said the man, looking about him. "What's gone wrong, Sherlock?"

"Nothing at all," replied Sherlock, calmly. "I simply wondered if you'd like to sit down for a cup of tea."

"What?"

"Tea. And biscuits, if you'd like."

"What?"

"John, do we have any biscuits?"

"Eh, yeah, I think so."

"Excellent. Shall I set the kettle to boil?"

"What?! I gave you that number exclusively for emergencies. I was eight galaxies away! I was _this _close to successfully negotiating a truce with the last of the Daleks!"

"I never said there was any rush."

"Um," I began. "What exactly is a Dal-,"

"You said 'now'! That kind of implies a rush!"

"Implication is not the same as statement," he said, standing up and smoothing out his jacket. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, that'll be all."

Mrs. Hudson left muttering something about 'sodding madmen' as she descended the stairs. Sherlock motioned for the two guests to have a seat before retreating into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

"I'm sorry. I'm not quite sure I caught your names," I said, seating myself across from the guests, who, in all honesty appeared even more perplexed than they had when they entered.

"Martha Jones," replied the young woman. She glanced at the man beside her who seemed a bit preoccupied with a skull he had found sitting atop the mantelpiece. "And that is the Doctor."

"I'm sorry, Doctor who?"

"No, just 'the Doctor'. That's what people call him."

"Ah. That's a bit odd, isn't it?"

"That's not the only thing about him that's odd…" Martha smiled to herself. "Uh, I don't think I caught your name either."

"Dr. John Watson."

"Is that right? I'm a doctor as well. Well, I will be if I ever finish my residency."

"Are you really? Where do you work?"

"Well, I did work at Royal Hope down in Holborn but I haven't been back in…nearly a year actually. Wow, that's scary."

Sherlock reappeared from the kitchen and sat down. "Tea should be ready in a few minutes," he said with smile worthy of Mycroft.

"Well, the flat looks better than it did last time I saw you. I see you kept the skull though."

"Naturally."

"So what have you been up to?"

"Oh, nothing really. Slow few months, really. Few cases of interest."

"Well, there are the ghosts, of course."

"Ghosts? What? In London?" asked Martha.

I laughed, sure that the young woman was joking, but the blank expression on her face told me that she was not. "Well, yes. Not just in London, all over the world. Have you not seen it on the telly? Ghosts in every city, every town, in every country. No one knows where they came from. They just appeared one day."

The Doctor sat up in his seat. "How long have they been here?"

"It's been about eight or nine weeks, I'd say."

The Doctor smirked and leaned back into his chair. "Is that why I'm here then? You're stumped and you wanted some help."

The look Sherlock gave him would have chilled a far less brave man to his core. "I am not 'stumped'. Is it so inconceivable that I might invite you for tea? People do that, don't they? They get together, they enjoy hot beverages…"

"I suppose," said the Doctor. "So tell me more about these ghosts then."

"Well, I mean, there isn't much to tell, is there? It's quite apparent what's happening."

"And what's that," asked Martha.

"It's our loved ones," I said plainly. "It's all the people who've passed on before us coming back to be with us."

"They appear for a few minutes at a time, about three or four times a day. The frequency has been increasing steadily for the past two months. They don't speak. They don't make any sound at all," said Sherlock. "However, I cannot come up with any other solution. They appear to be somewhat humanoid but supernatural malignancies are not within my…realm of expertise."

"Have you called her yet?" asked the Doctor.

"I didn't see a need to," replied Sherlock.

"When will the ghosts appear next?"

"Should be within the next ten minutes."

"Perfect! We'll wait with you then."

"Naturally. I'll get the tea, shall I?"

The kettle had just began to whistle and Sherlock lifted himself up to attend to it, leaving me alone with the company.

"So where are the pair of you from?"

"Oh, I'm from here," replied the young woman.

"Gallifrey," replied the doctor.

"I'm sorry. Gallifrey? I'm not sure I know where that is."

"It's a planet. A couple dozen solar systems away from here, I'd say, maybe even three."

"Right. Well, if you'll excuse me I think I'll help Sherlock with the tea." I followed Sherlock into the kitchen where he was trying to find the biscuits.

"Where do we _keep _the damn things anyway?" he said, slamming the cabinet door in frustration.

"Never mind the biscuits. I've just been talking to your friend in there. He is _completely _mental, Sherlock. He thinks he's from somewhere called Gallifrey which he says is-"

"He's not mad. Well…he may be a bit mad but the bit about Gallifrey is true."

"He thinks he's from outer space, Sherlock! He didn't know about the ghosts. That means he's been out of touch for reality for at least two months. He needs to go to hospital."

Sherlock broke into a most uncharacteristic grin and then, much to my alarm burst into laughter. "My dear Watson! He is from outer space!"

"What? Sherlock, speak sensibly!"

"Have I ever led you astray, John? No? Then trust me. He is a very old friend of mine and though I do not have time now to prove it, I know that he is as sane as you or I." With that Sherlock lifted up the tray of tea and brought it into the living room.

It was in that moment that I in earnest began to question the sanity of my dear companion. Of course, anyone who spends any protracted length of time in the company of Mr. Holmes must begin to question his judgment, if not their own. However, I had never had serious concern for his mental health before this point. As a man of medicine and a trusted confidant, I knew of many of his more peculiar habits and customs, which were quickly forming a very troubling picture in my mind. For the time I thought it best to let the afternoon run its course but my mind was racing as I drank my tea.

"Ah, and here they are."

A large specter drifted through the front wall of our flat. It gave the appearance of being composed entirely of a thick, London fog with a consistency that forced one to constantly keep oneself from attempting to see right through it. Indeed, although not completely opaque, it would have been difficult to see much of anything in great detail on it's other side.

"No." The doctor jumped to his feet. "No. No. NO."

"What? What is it?" asked Martha.

"Exactly what I feared." The man was agitated now and paced back and forth, his eyes never wavering from the spectral figure before him. "Didn't Torchwood shut _down_ in this dimension? How are they even getting through? There's no way…They don't have the technology! They don't have the-"

He stopped his pacing abruptly. "Oh my god. The Daleks. Auuurgh! They were stuck in there with the Daleks!"

"Excuse me but what-?" I began.

"The Daleks have the technology to escape the void and I locked those cybermen in there with _hundreds _of them. Oh my god. This is worse than before. They've had time to plan…to strategize…to work together. No, this is not good. This is very not good."

The Doctor dropped back down into his seat and brought his hands to his face.

"You need to call her."

"Is that really necessary?"

"Call her, Sherlock."

Sherlock paused.

"John, pass me my phone," he said tersely, not taking his eyes off the Doctor.

Sherlock punched out a short text and placed the phone on his knee.

"There. A text for one 'Ms. Potts'."


End file.
